Author Games: Ace of Spades

Task Four: Males

Adam Burke

Games of chance were never really in my agenda - of course, we had been playing them all evening, but there was a chance of math in poker, probability in blackjack. Roulette, however, was luck, and though I'd survived so far, I had a feeling my luck could run out.

My father had always loved numbers - of course, they were what kept him rolling in money. The big ones were his favorite, but he had other favorite. His usual password was 0621 - the twenty-first of June, his anniversary. It helped protect the jewels Mother kept in the safe and protect his ass from ever forgetting the date. Another favorite was 0904 - my birthday, September fourth. With all these numbers, it was a miracle he could remember his password to anything, let alone have time to run a company.

I hated numbers. Words were my strong suit - I did the talking in meetings and Father pulled up statistics. I wrote articles and descriptions for the websites, while Father would enter in numbers and impressive sales information from years before.

Of course, roulette was as much about numbers as it was about luck. You simply chose. There was a even chance of getting on any of the numbers, 1 to 36. It was purely random, unless Emerson, the Ace who was running this particular form of torture, had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"Ready to place your bets, contestants?" They rubbed their hands together and the group around me seemed even more nervous - Emerson was high-strung, and it seemed that if any of us did anything out of line, they'd break into a killing spree - not that there hadn't been killing sprees before. I had been utterly lucky to not be a part of them. "Who's going first?"

I stepped forwards. There was no point in going last. "I will."

"Ooh, good. Pick your poison, Mr. Burke."

September fourth, 1991. 09/04/1991. Add all those together, and you get 33.

"Thirty-three."

"Good. Spin, then. It's your game, Adam."

I'd always had the upper hand in games before, cheating at tennis, being able to guess how hard to putt the golf ball. Here, though, there was no way to guarantee a win, and the cost of losing wasn't something I wanted to chance.

I took a deep breath. My usual tactic in golf was not too hard, but enough that it would at least get to the hole. If it bounced over, as those tiny balls were wont to do, it was usually not further than it had been. The only cost there was possibly going over par, and losing to Barry.

Here, the cost of going over wasn't going to be a bogey.

I spun gently, the flick of my wrist sending the wheel clicking past the numbers in a blur, the black and red melding as the numbers whirled around.

26, 30, 11, 7. . .

The numbers spun on more than just the wheel, sending my mind spinning. When had I ever thought I could handle my own numbers? If I made it out alive. . .

1,000,000, 1,000,000, 1,000,000. . .

The wheel slowed, still clicking past the numbers, their black and red blur separating to reveal more of the numbers, and as it got closer and closer to my thirty-three, my breathing slowed as well, until I couldn't even watch for fear of suffocating myself with held breath.

Even the slightest exhale could cost me, and I wasn't talking about the million.

The clicking slowed ever further, finally stopping, and I still couldn't look. The room was pregnant with silence, until Emerson's slow voice said, just outside my line of sight, "Congratulations, Adam."